


A Contradiction in Terms

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Backgrounds, Childhood Sweethearts, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Family Conflict, Gen, Love Triangles (of sorts), Multi, Unlikely Friendships, Unlikely Romances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"A guy and a girl can be just friends, but at one point or another, they will fall for each other.  Maybe temporarily.  Maybe at the right time.  Maybe at the wrong time.  Maybe too late.  Or maybe forever."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A collection of moments, encounters, and memories: puzzle pieces standing alone while slowly building something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Selfish

**Author's Note:**

> Let me start by acknowledging what's probably your first thought: where did this pairing come from? The answer is, a roleplay I once did with a good friend way too many years ago, initially set in the 1990's Batman cartoon, that spawned a couple one-shots posted on fanfiction.net. And then Gotham came along, and I made the briefest mention of this relationship in my "Tiger, Tiger" series ("The Roman and the She-Wolf"...seriously, I think it was a one-sentence mention). And the idea wouldn't leave me alone. So here we are.
> 
> Please enjoy. :)  
> *******************  
> UPDATE 11/17/16 - After careful consideration, I've decided to close this story out and pick it back up when I begin part 3 of my Gotham series. Thank you, and I hope you will continue reading this odd little romance. :)

“Hello, Edward.”

She’s been lingering in the doorway for five minutes, uncertain, half a step away from retreating and forgetting she ever had the thought to come here, and finally speaks without any additional notion of what, exactly, she’ll say or do after the first greeting. He’s bent in half over a microscope, tall and lean and everything she remembers, and when he hears her speak, he straightens up, and his dark eyes find her a short distance away. His gaze shifts from surprised to something else, something hardened at the edges, and she feels the breath knocked from her lungs like a punch.

“Hello, Doctor.” He greets, too formally, too stiff in the lip and too tight in the throat. “What brings you here?”

_Doctor._ The title, as well-earned and pride-worthy as it is, suddenly feels like an insult. It stings. It stings a lot. “Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?”

She watches his face, checks to see that every detail is how she left it, takes note of the tiny wrinkle forming between dark eyebrows to indicate deep thought, and she’s pleasantly surprised to see he has to formulate a response, not just throw back a quick quip. Then, her surprise fizzles and dies a quick death, because the wrinkle deepens, furrowing his brow, and she realizes it’s not an indication of deep thought. It’s aggravation, a churning of unpleasant emotion, and she knows its cause.

“No, I suppose not.” He finally answers, tone cold and biting; she has the urge to slap him, for being so bitter, and she wants to hit herself, for letting six years come before this moment. “It’s nice to see you.” _Liar_ , she wants to say. “But I’m very busy, so—”

“With what?” she steps forward, setting her coat aside, pushing into his personal space without permission. He flinches, as though she will hit him or get too close or, and the thought hurts even more to consider, touch him. But he doesn’t stop her, and it’s as close to encouragement as she can hope for right now. He lets her peer into the microscope, though he steps aside; she remembers a time when they would have stood, pressed together, sharing space without a thought. “What’s that, lining the cell tissue?”

She poses the question, his expression changes, and suddenly they’re not in a forensic lab at the Gotham City medical examiner’s office, and they’re not adults, both scientists of different profession and varying interest. They’re in her bedroom, twenty-some years prior, after he’s shimmied across the clothes line between his house and hers, wriggled through the window silent as a mouse, and she’s given him a brand-new microscope for his birthday, the only gift he received that year, with a broad smile showcasing a gap between her front teeth that would later be fixed with five years of braces. They’re huddled close together on her bedroom floor, carefully examining her fingernails, a lock of his dark hair, and whatever else can be found in the name of scientific inquiry.

And then the lab door opens, a heavy-set man with a well-worn fedora and unkempt beard strolls inside, and he asks, in a low and unimpressed tone, observing them close together at the scope, if he’s interrupting anything. Edward is a little flustered, she’s a little irritated, and they give antonymous answers at the same time. One says “Yes,” one says “No,” and the truth is lost somewhere in the middle.

The man blinks, rolls his eyes, and tosses a sealed bag in Edward’s direction, asking for a full report by tomorrow morning. Inside, she sees a shirt stained with blood and something else that looks like dirt, but lacks the grainy texture. Just as with the cell lining, only a moment earlier, she points it out; Edward’s face lights up once more, he’s that little boy again, and for now, the icy reception from earlier is a discarded memory while they bend over the microscope together, sharing space and sharing company like it’s the most natural thing, for both of them.

*** 

The two hours she spends in the lab with him feel akin to a strange dream sequence. One of those dreams that is, by all accounts, overwhelmingly tangible and every sensation feels real; a dream that wears the clever guise of reality like a glove. As she’s standing beside him, propped elbows atop the counter, trading glimpses into the microscope, making observations that declare her mind is far superior to that of a mere psychologist—though he knows, intellectually, it’s a gross understatement to dismiss her profession like that; she works very hard and is very dedicated to each one of her clients—he wonders if this is a dream, conjured up by his mind. He knows the details and nuances of her figure as well as he knows his own face, from the thick black waves collected neatly atop her head and fastened with a clip, to the smooth lines of her jaw and dusting of freckles which has since faded over the years; from the large almond-shape of her chocolate-brown eyes to the perfectly symmetrical dip in her upper and lower lip, he knows them all, has seen them many a night in his dreams, and there is nothing irrational in presuming such details have formulated into a waking dream. But then he catches a whiff of her perfume, vanilla and cedar, a unique formula only developed once in this lifetime, and his head spins.

He decides to ask her about it. Or rather, he blurts out words at unnecessary volumes as she’s collecting her coat, and when she looks at him, slightly confused and startled by his outburst, he feels his face redden three different shades before he manages to repeat the question, quietly this time, staring at the floor.

Now, she smiles. “It was a Christmas gift, last year.” She says, cheerfully, as though the memory holds great affection in her heart. “Someone left it on my doorstep. My niece still believes it was Santa.”

“Why?” It’s ridiculous, of course, to be jealous of the jolly man in red and white, the golden-hearted figure of Yuletide cheer, but Santa doesn’t know her favorite two scents, and Edward doesn’t remember any mention of a chemistry lab at Santa’s workshop, with little elves dressed in green working tirelessly for months, pouring over test tubes and glass beakers, to fuse those two scents together until a perfect blend had been achieved.

She shrugs, still smiling. “No signature, no card, no explanation, and it was left sometime during the night on Christmas Eve. You know how some children’s minds work, Edward: logic and reason rarely come into play.”

He watches her slip into the coat, a white pea coat that, truly, only she could both look unbelievably beautiful in _and_ keep meticulously clean; he nods and remembers to wave half a second too late, when she’s already out the door, and listens to the sound of her heels _click, click, click_ down the hall. Then there’s silence, and he slowly drops downward. The wheeled stool propped against the wall catches him, then promptly slides to the left and he careens off the cushion, to the floor, with a dull _thud_.

There are times he is exceptionally grateful Dr. Thompkins takes long lunches.

***

Working in a residential facility responsible for housing only girls between the ages of 10 and 17 is, for most people, Hell on Earth. Being the all-hands-on-deck, braced-for-anything woman that she is, Joan personally never sees the comparison, except for one week out of every month. The first week, to be exact, during which time all internal clocks have synchronized and life becomes, quite nearly, Hell on Earth. No one is in a good mood, the girls pick fights for no reason, and Mrs. Brown issues incident reports for everything from a screaming match in the hallway to a door left unlocked. Life, for the first week of every month, resembles her childhood home: loud, messy, and migraine-inducing.

Exactly two weeks after her impromptu visit to the precinct, a stiff-lipped Mrs. Brown knocks on her office door and advises there is a “specimen of the male persuasion” asking for her. Edward peeks from around the corner, over Mrs. Brown’s shoulder, and gives a little wave. It’s the same wave he would give her every morning, from one bedroom window to the other. She smiles.

“Come in, Edward.” She gestures at the soft-cushioned chair set off to the side, reserved for guests, instead of the hard plastic seats the girls sit on during sessions. She thinks, looking at him, it must his day off, hence the casual attire, and then a chance look at the calendar reminds her it’s Saturday.

The dark-wash denim and button-up shirt fits him well; still a considerable degree above what most people in Gotham considered “casual wear” and reminiscent of his usual office wear. He’s wearing dark green today. She likes that color on him; she’s told him so, several times, and it makes her smile to consider that might have factored into his clothing choice today.

“I apologize for coming without notice.” He says, shyly, staring at his shoes with great interest. _Some things never change_ , she thinks, remembering the younger version sitting beside her in class, addressing her but always speaking to his shoes, the floor, or his desk, whichever happened to be in closer range at the time.

“I’m glad to see you.” She reassures, tucking a loose lock behind her ear. Mother’s voice echoes in her ear, reminding her to sit up straight and stop fussing with her hair like a nervous child. She does, and then she notices Edward frown, just a little. “What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“It?”

His frown deepens, and she squirms, just a little, uncomfortable under the glaring intensity of his gaze. It’s astounding, really, to watch a face nearly innately refined to form shy smiles or, when in the realm of his knowledge and expertise, beaming confidence, suddenly darken at the corners and turn into something else entirely. It’s not ugly, or frightening, but it’s not him.

“Acting like your mother is in the room.” He says, the bitterness unmistakable, and she swallows quietly. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Sorry.” She manages, fingers twitching a little within the folds of her skirt. “Old habit.”

She nearly cringes as the words hit open air, circulate back into her ears, and echo for an unpleasant moment. Excuses. _Always excuses._ A chance peek at his face mirrors her self-reprimand, and while he says nothing more, she reads his expression only too well. Her mouth opens, struggling to find some better words, some cheery change of subject, but it’s too late. He stands up, seemingly determined to appear unaffected and calm, but his body language betrays him, especially in the eyes of someone trained to read nonverbal cues.

“Edward…” she tries, but it’s a weak-hearted attempt and he never lets her finish.

“I won’t keep you.” He says, too stiffly. “I just thought I would…”

_Say hello? Stop by?_ She attempts to finish the sentence for him, even in silence, but somehow it doesn’t feel right. He isn’t impulsive. He does things with a plan and purpose. To just “stop by,” as the phrase goes, isn’t his way. He came here for a reason; she knows it… _but what? And why? And…?_

She never asks the question, and he leaves in silence. When Mrs. Brown asks her later about the redness rimming her eyes, Joan passes it off as allergies. It’s a lie, but she’s a very good liar. No one questions her.

***

Two weeks quickly sets itself up as par for their course: it’s the span of passed time before she decides to use her lunch as an excuse to leave the office and visit him again. This time, it’s a wasted trip; the desk sergeant tells her Edward is out in the field, dealing with a crime scene. She reads about it in the paper the following morning: a small section in the Crime Blotter, discussing the discovery of a body found in a back alley—sadly, a common occurrence for far too many in this city—with multiple stab wounds. There are rumors, circulating through the media outlets for a couple days thereafter, that this man was a hired gun. Speculation offers that he targeted the wrong person and paid the price. Again, a common occurrence for far too many.

She tries to break the cycle of fourteen days, but Life has other plans. Three girls get into a small spat on the following Monday. By Wednesday, all three are preparing for war. By Saturday, war has been declared and the small back patio, traditionally reserved for recreational purposes, has become a battlefield of scratching, pulled hair, black eyes, chipped teeth, multiple bite marks, and the use of more expletives than Joan previously knew to be in existence. The police are called back, twice, and she has a very unfortunate experience with one of the responding officers.

Mrs. Brown is equally ruffled by the officer’s rudeness. “That,” she declares over an evening cup of tea, after the police have left and the three responsible parties have been taken away for a weekend in the juvenile detention center, “is a child who was never given a proper paddling.”

Joan agrees, and decides to pay another visit to the precinct on Monday. The new commissioner has kept her office there, rather than relocate, which makes access to her much easier. Less security, less people, and less explanation once Joan flashes her ID and credentials.

“I am so sorry.” Commissioner Essen says, with genuine concern and even a little bit of sympathy, after the tale has been told; she rubs her temples with two fingers each and sighs heavily. “We’re all a little overworked these days; the homicide rates are suddenly through the roof, turf wars left and right, and everyone’s stressed. But that’s no excuse. I’ll speak with Officer Patton myself.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Joan nods politely; she understands being overworked and underpaid, but no, it is no excuse, especially not for the sake of demonstrating good customer service. There is still something to be said for the “Grin and Bear It” routine, even if it means pinning the corners of your mouth back with safety pins. “I’m just concerned he might have an equally unfortunate incident with someone less…civilized.”

The commissioner nods, offering her hand with a warm handshake. “Thank you again, Doctor. If you have any other issues with my officers, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

They part on pleasant terms, and she dares a quick trip downstairs, hoping to catch Edward in the office. But, once again, it’s in vain. A tall and slim woman, probably about Joan’s age, with short dark hair and intent eyes as she studies the reports in hand, is leaning against a desk. Edward’s not here.

She thinks to ask this woman where he might be, then decides against it. There will be questions asked, she’s sure, and she doesn’t feel like answering them.

***

Joe’s Diner is a familiar stomping ground for her, partly from high school but mostly from college, when she once worked these laminated floors in jeans, the uniform pastel-blue polo shirt, and an apron weighed heavy with one notepad, three pens (one of which never worked, but she always forgot to toss it), a pack of gum, and lots and lots and lots of cash bills. Her customers always had the habit of paying in one-dollar bills, even if they were ultimately tipping for more. It made going to the bank an irritating experience, with very nosy tellers inquiring about her job occupation while making poorly-concealed snap judgments.

As she approaches the counter, her eyes look across the wall, taking note of the framed photographs covering nearly every inch of aged wallpaper. In the second row, fifth from the far right, she sees herself, about ten years younger. She wore her hair short then, cropped in what Mother had despairingly declared an indication of her sexuality. Day after day, month after month, at every family dinner and similar gathering, until the hair had started regaining its former length.

Edward and Mother never agreed, not from their first meeting three decades prior, and should they ever meet again in this day and age, she can’t imagine it would be different. The hair comment was one of the worst contention points between them; he’d adored the cut from the second Joan had left the salon. The sharp angles, the asymmetry…he was nothing less than enamored. Once the hair grew back, she distinctly remembers him begging her to get it cut again, because it made her look beautiful. That had been the first time he’d called her _beautiful_. To date, it had also been the last.

Joe often greets customers himself, and today is no exception. He’s showing his sixty-five years, with more white than brown in his mustache, and some lines pronounced across his face and shaved head; nevertheless, he still carries his weight well, and welcomes her with a broad smile and half-embrace exchanged over the countertop.

He still remembers her favorite: Patty Melt with extra cheese, fries, and sweet tea. “This body has been in the repair shop a few times,” he tells her with a wink, “but my memory is still running strong.”

It’s only a short time later that he slides the tray filled with steaming food, the aroma making her stomach growl its wanting, across the countertop; she reaches for her wallet, but he waves a large hand and shakes his head. “None of that.”

“The ‘employees eat free’ discount doesn’t apply anymore, Joe.” She says, lips smiling playfully, but he still shakes his head.

“Not on me, Joan.” He says. “Chivalry isn’t dead, so I suggest you go thank the nice young man in booth 12. He paid before you even ordered.”

This isn’t the first time some “nice young man” has picked up her tab—usually, it’s a common occurrence at coffee shops, and the man in question makes conversation while her vanilla latte is getting cold—but it is the first time it’s happened at Joe’s. This is practically a sanctuary for her in Gotham, the one place where men don’t take note of her bare ring finger and take opportunity in greedy hands. She’s almost inclined to feel insulted, that nothing is truly sacred in this city anymore. But Daddy raised her with manners, and a full meal is not something to be ungrateful for.

Booth 12 is a familiar place too; in the time when she was Joe’s employee, Edward was a frequent customer, always very selective about his placement, and eventually Joe just started reserving the booth for “String Bean”. Edward would sit there while she worked her shift, quietly sipping coffee and pouring over textbooks, three each, sometimes more, each one thick with pages depicting graphs and charts and numbers, then they would walk back to campus together and he would regale her with all he’d learned in the past eight hours. Anatomy, Chemistry, Advanced Calculus…her head spins, even now, remembering the classes he took, half for credit and half “for fun”. He was, naturally, one of a select few college sophomores to take a graduate-level Biology course on the weekends, for sheer enjoyment.

She gets halfway to the booth, eyes trained on the other customers, because she can’t seem to turn off her “people-watching” trait even when she ought to be paying attention to what’s in front of her, and then halts mid-step. Over his coffee mug, Edward meets her surprised gaze, salutes her with the cup, and returns to his crossword.

“How did you know I would be here?” she asks, slowly lowering down to the opposing seat with a broadening smile. He shrugs, saying it was more an educated guess than a confirmed bit of knowledge, but his educated guesses are usually very educated and consequently very accurate, so he was quite confident in his assumption.

He’s far more relaxed this time, the uncomfortable events of their last visit apparently forgiven and forgotten, and it isn’t long before they’re lost in deep conversation. They finish the crossword puzzle together, not because he’s at a loss for any answers, but because it’s something they used to do as children, and today just happens to be the day both are feeling nostalgic. When it’s finished, he executes some very precise folding techniques, perforating the edges, and then neatly tears the puzzle free of the newspaper. She asks if he still collects them; he nods, which means he’s still “collecting” them in a scrapbook, one for each year, every puzzle carefully dated and time-stamped from moment of start to finish. He has one scrapbook for every year.

From the crossword puzzle, over a shared second order of fries, they delve into an impassioned discussion of sociological theories, and how such theories apply to the disorder and chaos currently plaguing Gotham’s streets. He argues Marx; she argues the “Broken Windows” theory, with a slight accent of Labeling Theory. Back and forth, give and take, push and pull, and she feels as though time hasn’t changed at all. This is how long nights were spent in college, away from his father and her family, from sophomore year all the way to graduation day—him with two Masters’ of Science and her with a Master’s of Science and her Ph.D.—in their shared apartment off of Main Street. Often, it was late at night, with steaming cups of hot tea and their pajamas, because there were far more important things than sleep.

And then, because Gotham just can’t let anyone have a legitimately pleasant day, from start to finish, a voice erupts through the peaceful diner air, all shrilled excitement and hurried _clip, clop, clip, clop_ of stiletto heels on the laminate. “Joanie! Oh my goodness, is that you??”

With heels too high to be legal, bare legs toned and bronze beneath the skirt’s indecently-short hem, and a blouse highlighting all God-given curves with fashion and expensive silk, her cousin looks sorely out of place at Joe’s. This is blue-collar territory, for the working class and college students; even Joan’s dark slacks and button-up sky-blue blouse is enough to warrant a second look from other customers, but she walks quietly and respectably and no one ever gives more than a second look. Virginia, on the other hand, dressed as a rising sitcom star with grand dreams of Broadway and Hollywood, embracing Joan with squealing and chattered greetings without a breath in between, fits in here about as well as businesswoman in what most have affectionately labeled “Hooker Lane”. Meaning, she doesn’t. And thanks to her high-pitched greeting, Joan is included in the multitude of stares being thrown their way. She’d very much appreciate it if the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Right now.

“—and be still my beating heart!” Virginia’s gaze suddenly veers to the right, and Joan cringes as she’s abruptly released and her cousin _clip, clops_ forward two steps. “Little Eddie? I don’t believe it! Talk about filling up and out! Where _has_ Joanie been hiding you?”

Edward’s smile looks painfully forced, and Joan can see his fingers twitching at the use of “Eddie”. She’s never understood the appeal of that nickname, or any such butchering of one’s given name, but Virginia is quite fond of such tactics; whether it’s from some misguided attempt at affection or deliberate antagonizing behavior, Joan has yet to determine, though she suspects the latter. He manages an equally forced greeting, and she feels a burning satisfaction at the way he keeps eyes determinedly trained on Virginia’s face, not the fit of her blouse and skirt which, frankly, leaves far too little for the imagination.

Virginia prattles on, even going so far as to stroke a hand across his shoulder, and Joan tastes blood after locking teeth into her cheek. When her cousin invites herself to join them for a last-minute cup of coffee—not here, of course, but at the “cute little café across the street”, Joan decides enough is enough. It’s the same old game, time after time after time. She’s let her cousin snatch up her far share of boyfriends, always in such a way to reiterate how quiet, bookish Joan was and will never be a match for vivacious and full-loving Virginia. Edward will _not_ be next on the list on conquests. He’s _her_ friend, not Virginia’s, and no, she doesn’t care how absolutely childish that sounds, even in her head.

“Edward and I have to get back to work, Virginia.” She says, willing her voice to not actually sound like the vicious growl rumbling up in her chest, the one that’s half a level before locking her arms around him and snarling, like a dog marking its territory. “Maybe some other time.” _Or never._

“Don’t be so stingy, Joanie.” Virginia waves a dismissive hand. “We’re not kids anymore. You don’t get to keep Eddie all to yourself. It’s very selfish of you.”

She feels a lick of anger in her veins. _You would know a thing or two about being selfish, you vindictive little—_

“I really do have to go, Ms. Collins.” Edward says, with perfect manners and a tight edge to his voice, one Joan wonders if only she can hear or if it’s meant for her cousin—and yes, she takes great satisfaction in the way he refers to Virginia by formal title only. “I hope you have a pleasant day. Joan, would you care to walk with me to the bus stop?”

She knows, even as she deposits her empty tray in the receptacle area and slips back into her coat while Virginia glowers at her retreating form, there will be Hell to pay for this, come their next family dinner. It will be the old song-and-dance: Virginia makes a scene, Mother takes the side of her niece instead of her daughter, and Joan gets the cold shoulder for about a month. As a teenager, it was greatly distressing. As a college student, she kept herself too busy to care, unless she was alone and no one could hear her tears. As an adult…she’s just used to it.

And to see Edward so brazen, so forward, so…so _forceful_ , all because of Virginia’s presence, is almost enough to make Joan forgive her cousin’s uninvited interruption into what, really, was a wonderful afternoon and she doesn’t even care that she’s almost two hours late returning to the facility.

“Did you get rid of your car?” she asks, once they’re out the door and strolling briskly down the sidewalk. She remembers the vehicle well, from the day he purchased it after working odd jobs for two consecutive summers, because his father invested in beer more than he did his son, to the last ride she took in the car, the day after graduation.

He smiles, shyly this time, not the forced grin he was wearing a moment ago, and nods down the way. She follows his direction and smiles when her eyes find the car. It’s showing the age a little bit, but he’s clearly taken good care of it. Even the scratches and little dings along one side seem less like damage and more like character, giving the car history and personality. She brushes an affectionate touch over the front bumper. They used to stretch out across the hood, as teenagers, and he’d point out the star constellations.

Strange, the things one remembers.

“I’m glad we had a chance to talk.” She says, leaning a little against the driver-side. “It was…just like old times.”

“Yes, it was.” He nods; there’s a flicker of something, something saddened at the edges, mixed with something she just can’t identify, and then he blinks and it’s gone. She wonders if she imagined it. “I hope we can do it again. Sometime. Sometime when you have free time. I know your schedule must be…and mine can be as well, when cases pop up with no warning. And with the city in the state it’s currently in—”

She reaches out and rests one hand over his, and he stops talking. He stops talking, drops his gaze to their hands, and his gaze suddenly becomes intent, nearly blazing, and she nearly shivers. He’s…never looked at her like that before.

And then he looks at her, once again, and it’s gone. The burning intensity of his gaze, the unexpected power in his eyes…all gone, like it was only a memory. Maybe it was just her imagination. Maybe she really does need the vacation everyone keeps telling her to take.

“I’ll be in touch.” She whispers. He nods, slowly, but when she gently begins to withdraw, his grip flexes, tightens around hers, and holds her captive. Forceful, again…this time, she does shiver. And she doesn’t bother to hide it.

“For the record,” he says, very quietly, and she feels his fingers slip between hers, just a little, just enough to be real and not a delusion, “I like it when you’re selfish.”


	2. Welcome to the Neighborhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the beginning.

The Leland clan moved into the quiet little col-de-sac during Edward’s first summer of middle school, and by summer’s end, the cul-de-sac was no longer quiet nor little. Numbering just shy of twenty members in all, not including distant relatives and others currently living out of state, the Lelands bought three adjacent residences of the east section, packed them to the brim with adults easily outnumbered by a tribe of wild children, and called it home. The neighbors called it trouble.

He met one of the many Leland children the fourth day of school, five weeks later on a hot August afternoon, during recess. Never the most social of schoolyard children, Edward kept to himself, in a secluded little section of playground equipment with wood rotting from the inside out, metal screws corroded with rust, and something distinctly mold-like growing across the plastic. No one ever played on it, and so he could be left alone to study the unique little specimens popping up, a new one every week, it seemed, without any of the lesser-minded giving him grief. 

After an entire three months away, there was a fresh crop of new mold and little insect colonies to be studied. He wished for a better microscope, something akin to that used by real scientists, instead of the little magnifying glass used by his father in the days when said individual actually bothered to read something besides the label on a beer bottle, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“What are you doing up there?”

The magnifying glass went flying from startled fingers, and he winced each time it banged off something—three times: once off the wooden platform, once off the supporting beam, and a final time against the pebble garden securing the structure in dirt and sand—before daring to peek over the edge and see, first and foremost, what had become of his precious examining tool, and second, the identity of his uninvited company.

He found the magnifying glass half-tucked in the sand, and then it was in the hands of a dark-haired girl of his approximate age. She met his gaze with the largest brown eyes he’d ever seen, and he felt the blush creeping across his cheeks. He must look like an embarrassed tomato.

“Studying.” He blurted, and his cheeks went red-hot. She tilted her head at him, thick black braids tumbling over one cheek in the process, and he couldn’t help but feel he’d seen her before.

“Studying what?” she asked, dusting off the metal rim with two flicks of the fingers. Miraculously, there was no damage to the glass itself. Maybe there was a God after all.

What came out of his mouth next was some garbled explanation of mold strands and both the place and duration of their natural growth and lifespan, all of which made perfect sense to him and none of which made a fragment of sense to her, as the steady ascent of her dark eyebrows communicated perfectly. He felt his cheeks grow hotter and hotter, his mouth slowly growing slack while his otherwise coherent speech fizzled and dissolved to nonsensical blabbering, and finally he pulled back into a corner and waited for the rotting wood to open and let him drop to the ground like a rock.

It didn’t. Instead, he heard quiet creaking, a little scrape of rubber soles on wood, and then a soft _umph_ as the girl hoisted herself onto the platform—or rather, pulled and rolled herself from the edge. His eyes caught a flash of dark purple coveralls, and recognition hit from a few cautious peeks over the fence during the past weeks, while his new neighbors moved boxes from trucks to home, children running everywhere and adults hollering names left and right.

“You’re Joan.” He said, much louder than intended, and his face darkened (yet again) when she quirked an eyebrow at him. “Joan Leland…your family moved in over the summer.”

Silence, until her eyebrows perked up and her mouth made a little “o” shape that he found unbearably endearing. “Eddie, right?”

_Ugh._ “Edward,” he corrected, maybe a little forcefully, but the last thing he needed was someone else calling him by that horrible name. Why did people even have nicknames? Why did anyone find it necessary to butcher a perfectly good name?

“Sorry.” She dusted herself off and plopped down beside him, legs folded neatly, elbows propped atop both knees. “So…do you spend all your time up here? Alone? Studying…whatever is it you said earlier?”

He bristled. “It’s not _whatever_. I’m studying biological samples growing at a natural rate over something that isn’t natural to their environment, and determining any differences in how they respond to the plastic of this playground equipment to how they would respond to an ordinary sample of dirt.”

Her left eyebrow lifted. “And you have an ordinary sample to dirt for comparison?”

The question was surprising, for two reasons. First, it meant she _was_ actually listening to him. Second, he could name about twelve of his classmates who wouldn’t know the words “sample” and “comparison” if either smacked them dead in the face. His heart immediately spiraled into an excited frenzy, and before there was any hope of reigning it in, he was on his feet, on the ground, and pointing out the five comparative samples he’d gathered since the start of school. Halfway through his explanation of the mold’s progression on each one, he noticed the same bemused expression as before, this time while she was dangling over the platform edge, braids hanging loose in her eyes. And he stopped talking.

Then, she giggled. “You’re weird, Edward.”

It wasn’t the first (or the last, for that matter) time someone had called him _weird_. It wasn’t the first or last time someone had laughed at him. It _was_ the first time he thought someone wasn’t laughing at him, but _with_ him. And, when she said it, _weird_ wasn’t as much an insult as it was a kindly word. None of which, of course, made a bit of sense.

But nor did he mind it when she called him weird. He thought maybe he liked it. Maybe he even liked her.

***

There were, by Edward’s quiet calculations, at least three generations of youth living between the three buildings. The youngest were a mix of those still in diapers and those learning to take first steps; the middle generation were entering the early school years; the third and oldest generation consisted of exactly five children: twins Eugene and Eugenia, Derek, Virginia, and Joan. The twins were the youngest, preceded two years by Derek, who was preceded by cousins Virginia and Joan, both of which seemed constantly locked in some sort of competition. _Some sort_ , because the former seemed far more invested in it than the latter.

The cousins were a contradiction in terms, and as a child intrigued by puzzles and making the illogical into something comprehensible, Edward spent a great deal of time studying them both. Virginia was a rollercoaster without brakes and without a driver: vivacious and energized, but quick to turn into something akin to a temperamental dog, one of small stature but furious attitude. Her great mass of black curls were always meticulous, her little dresses fringed with lace and kept perfectly clean—to stain a dress was to forfeit one’s hearing for a week, as he’d been privy to witness many times—with dainty shoes to match. Virginia was all about her looks, in such a way that he was reminded of his mother’s wistful vanity. A stay-at-home, working-class woman such as his mother could hardly maintain the appearance of her desires, but it didn’t stop her from collecting magazines in the grocery check-out line.

Joan was as much Virginia’s opposite as the North Pole was to the South: caramel-brown skin often to be seen with smudges of dirt and dark hair either twisted into a series of braids or pulled off her face by an elastic band; a child of denim and plaid shirts and sneakers, not to be bothered with pristine appearances when she was the eldest, and as such put in charge of rounding up younger cousins like a cowboy herds cattle. The task was just as tedious, the children just as unruly, and by the end of the day, Joan would be just as dirty.

For reasons he never understood, Virginia appeared to be determined to one-up her cousin from here to the grave, and never was this more apparent to Edward than at the Halloween block party. Theirs was a quiet neighborhood, hardly one for grand displays, but they could get together and have a good time when the occasion called for it. Halloween was a time for children to dress up accordingly, play games, and run amok while the adults mingled and drank apple cider. Edward’s father always brought his own.

Edward loved Halloween. How could he not? How could anyone not? An annual celebration authorizing youth to bedeck themselves in the most intricate and imaginative attire, engage with each other (he could do without that part), and eat enough candy to induce a full-fledged sugar coma? This was a once-a-year kind of treat, and he made the most of it.

The year the Lelands moved in was the year Edward dressed himself in his Sunday suit—which was never used for the day in question, but his grandmother didn’t need to know how her son really spent “the good day”—traded out the rectangular shape of his glasses for a pair of rounded spectacles with thick frames, and slicked his hair back with far too much water. The little wooden pipe was a children’s toy, but it fit the part. When he gave himself a final perusal in the mirror, the well-dressed figure winked back at him.

The Lelands were already prancing across the lawns, a strange gathering of brightly-colored fairies, sword-fighting pirates, and a few figures from popular television shows that Edward vaguely recognized—not enough to put a definitive name to; he rarely watched television for fear it might shrivel up his brain cells. The adults were standing off to the side, quietly chatting. Edward’s father was already halfway through his third glass of spiked cider. More “spike” than cider; rum was a key ingredient for any drink, apparently.

Virginia was painfully obvious to spot: white dress padded with lots of lace trim and multi-layered skirts, all glitter and sparkle, a spotlight of her own, shining solely on her. A short distance away, tending to a gathering of costumed cousins, Joan was without. Edward felt a stone drop in his stomach. He’d actually been looking forward to what character she might become tonight.

“Where’s your costume?” he asked, after electing the best way to spark conversation was with an offering of cider. His right arm weighed about ten pounds more than his left, the bag full of candy and sweets hung over his elbow and mildly cutting off his circulation.

Joan shrugged, though with a tiny smile as she accepted the paper cup. “Money’s tight. Besides,” her dark eyes moved across the lawn, where Virginia was twirling in place and ruffling her skirts, “Virginia had to have her princess dress.”

“What about what _you_ want?”

In later years, he’ll look back and remember the first time he asked this question, not only because it was the first of so many times he was to ask it, but also for being the moment when, without prior notice or advance warning, he realized a rather startling truth:

He cared about Joan. He cared about her very, very much.

She answered then, as she would often in later years, with a little shrug and tiny smile. Then she would change the subject. He would eventually dare to push the point, press her for an answer, then be the listening ear while she expressed frustration and quiet fury, darker emotions she kept tucked away and buried so deep no one could find them. No one, except him.

But their first Halloween was not that night. He nodded, drank his cider, and let the subject rest. When she asked, he proudly presented himself as Sigmund Freud. Or, at least, the closest representation he could create.

“I thought you didn’t like Psychology.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you dressed as one of the founding fathers of Psychology?”

It had been then, with that comment, Edward knew the different paths he and Joan were meant to follow. It hadn’t bothered him nearly as much as expected.

“Halloween is all about dressing up as the strange and bizarre.” He answered. “Mr. Freud was a very strange and bizarre man.”

“He was not!”

“Prove otherwise.”

They argued all night, on the grass, over their cider and a shared bag of candy. It was the best Halloween he’d ever had.


	3. Definition: Disagreeable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Nygma has been dealing with the Leland clan for a long time. Maybe a little too long.

Growing up with the Lelands directly next door meant Edward didn’t have much of a choice when it came to encountering one or multiple members of the clan. But not all were terrible or dread-worthy. The cousins closest in age were respectable enough; he admired Derek’s gold-hearted, no-man-left-behind leadership style on the football field, was enlisted to assist the twins in their science fair project two years in a row (the baking soda volcano was a mind-numbingly-simple classic, but it got the job done and their parents paid him five dollars an hour), and spent wonderful hours in the backyard chatting with Joan over the wire fencing, or perched in the giant oak tree that splayed itself wide over both yards. 

The younger cousins were less of a population he actively sought out and more a population placed in his lap (literally) when parents needed a break and there was no babysitter available. But even that had been painless; the little ones were noisy and messy, and had incredibly selective hearing, but they were harmless enough and there was nothing of great value to be found amongst the wreckage. In fact, by high school, when he wasn’t working, he was actively seeking any chance to watch the young ones for a night. Watching them at the Leland’s house meant spending a solid few hours with Joan. Stories of their babysitting adventures were a source of entertainment throughout their entire college careers, from the time they’d “lost” little Jackson in the linen closet to every time Edward had nearly killed himself trying to correct the toddlers’ grammar.

And then there were certain members of the Leland clan that made Edward’s “Avoid at All Costs (Not Excluding Loss of Limb)” list. Ranking first and foremost was—and still is; let him not delude himself on the matter—Joan’s mother. A most disagreeable woman on the best of days and a harpy of righteous indignation of the worst, Edward managed to establish their relationship early on. Joan’s thirteenth birthday, to which Edward was _not_ invited, happened to fall on the day of his grandmother’s movement to a retirement home. Boxes upon boxes of heirlooms and, most importantly, volumes of literature that hadn’t been touched in decades, ended up at his parents’ house and were shoved upstairs with barely a blink. Upon whispered invitation over the fence, Joan promptly fled her party, pearl-pink dress and white Mary-Jane shoes and all, then darted into the attic at Edward’s side to unearth these treasures from dust-soaked boxes and pour over as many as humanly possible on a floor that hadn’t actually been cleaned since purchase of the residence. Mrs. Leland’s shrieks, seeing Joan’s previously-pristine dress smothered in dirt and dust, deafened Edward for a week, and his father took the belt to him in repayment for the two hours he lost listening to the neighbor wail about his irresponsible, inconsiderate, utterly uncouth son.

And, of course, there was Virginia. Dear, sweet, can-do-no-wrong, budding-little-angel, doe-eyed Virginia, capable of harming no one and nothing except a cousin who threatened her ego, the purity of her expensive dresses, happened to get on her nerves, or was in the way while she walked down the hallway. Dearest Virginia, ever the apple of her parents’ eyes, her auntie’s eyes, and the bane of every cousin hanging from the precarious branches of their family tree, just waiting with terror for who might be plucked or snipped by dainty hands that seemed nearly God-like in their power.

Enduring this particular Leland as a child had been difficult, but forcibly-palatable. Enduring her during the high school years, until he all-but kidnapped Joan after graduation and fled across the state to Gotham University, bordered on cruel and unusual punishment for a crime he wasn’t aware of committing.

Having his Monday morning begin with her waltzing through the precinct doors, with too much heel and too little skirt, and announce herself to him from across the bull pen… _that_ is beyond the pale.

Detective Bullock’s eyebrows bounce into his hairline when Virginia eagerly clicks her way up the stairs and saunters forward, hips swinging heavy as a pendulum under a skirt that shows more leg than necessary and leaves little for imagination. He then tosses Edward a wicked grin and bounces his eyebrows in a very suggestive and highly unwarranted manner. Detective Gordon proves that he is a kinder and more discrete soul, by keeping his eyes on the reports he needs to be signing and offering not a single word on the matter.

“Sorry to drop by unannounced, Eddie,” she croons, sounding not the least apologetic, “but I thought you’d join me for that cup of coffee. Now that Joanie isn’t around to be so demanding of your time.”

He suspects Detective Gordon is quite aware of the mounting tension, because the blonde man has to wrestle a pen from Edward’s locked grip before signing the papers, but again, no comment. “I’m at work, Ms. Collins.”

“C’mon,” she comes closer; the eyebrows are arching and the eyelids are dropping and he has seen this act one too many times with one too many men, “you can take a break, Eddie. Spend some time with me. It’s been far too long since we caught up.”

His jaw is steadily locking. “We never were in the habit of _catching up_ , or engaging in polite conversation.” He replies; Detective Gordon does look up at the now-audible terseness. “I believe it was your boyfriend—or should I say, your boyfriend _s_ , all twelve of them—who took great pleasure in vandalizing my locker, stealing and/or misplacing my textbooks, stuffing me inside said locker at multiple times throughout the school year, and taking my clothes after gym class while I was in the shower, ensuring I went throughout the rest of the day in my underwear.”

“Harmless little pranks.” She waves a hand, still flashing her pretty little smile at him. He has an intense urge to bathe.

“Showing up intoxicated well beyond the legal limit, showing up on the doorstep half-dressed,” he can see Detective Gordon’s eyebrows steadily rising, “vomiting on the stoop, passing out twice in the bathroom, and then falling asleep naked on the couch, _two_ New Years in a row. Considering you were under the legal drinking age at the time, Ms. Collins, said behavior migrates from _harmless little pranks_ to misdemeanor criminal offenses.”

She now has the nerve to roll her eyes at him. Twice. “Just like Joanie,” Virginia huffs, helping herself to a seat on the edge of Detective Gordon’s desk and tossing one leg over the other, “keeping score for every little thing.”

“Your conclusion is missing some key evidence, Ms. Collins.” He retorts; he really should mind his blood pressure, considering he has a doctor appointment this afternoon, but the longer he stares at her face, the higher it steadily climbs. “First and foremost, your cousin has far more grievances to cash in than myself. Grievances amounting to years of emotional and psychological torture. My grievance is far simpler.”

He allows for a short pause, then wrestles a tight smile to his face. “I just don’t like you.”

***

“Funny thing happened today,” Joan says, eyebrows delicately lifted as she surveys Edward’s wide-eyed innocence across the table; Joe stops by to deliver a third order of sweet tea and a piping-hot pair of his famous cherry turnovers, “Virginia stormed into my office during group therapy, labeled me as a _vindictive, man-grubbing, manipulative harpy_ , and stormed back out. Any idea what that is about?”

He shrugs, taking both a turnover and his drink with a shaking head. “The woman will make such a fuss over the tiniest criticism.” He answers, hiding a satisfied smirk in the tea. “Perhaps she should seek counseling.”


	4. Accident-Prone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward isn't as much accident- _prone_ as he is accident...everything.

“And how exactly did this happen?”

Mrs. Brown walks in with an expression fit to make a lemon proud, stiffly places the First Aid kit on Joan’s desk, then turns on her heel and marches right back out. Male visitors at a female group home, understandably, is highly restricted or, when permitted, subject to extreme scrutiny and supervision. Said rules are most applicable to the girls, understandably. Apparently, it is also Mrs. Brown’s opinion that the rules should also apply to female staff members. Previously, Joan had no input regarding the matter.

As of late, she finds Mrs. Brown’s icy disapproval irritating on good days and intolerable on bad days. She is a grown woman. She can have a man visit her if she so pleases. And she does indeed so please.

Edward gives her a sheepish half-grin and shrugs one shoulder; the shoulder not belonging to the hand he presently has soaking in a bowl of ice water. The burns are minor, third-degree at best, but he also has some open cuts along the palm and she’ll not take any chances of infection. In half a minute, as soon as he walked through the door, she had one edge of her desk lined with ointment cream, clean white bandages, and surgical tape. She’s also prepared to trim away any skin too damaged to treat, if need be. Let it never be said those school days spent dissecting frogs, worms, and various other insects were wasted.

“I couldn’t help it.” He sighs, looking rather wistfully at his hand. “You know how I get when new supplies for the laboratory.”

“If I remember correctly,” Joan replies, lips curling in a coy expression. “your overwhelming excitement for new toys cost a pretty penny in the neighborhood.”

“Those sheds hadn’t been used, occupied, or otherwise needed for ten years.” Edward says, primly, “I checked.”

“I know.” She carefully lifts the hand from its’ ice bath and begins what will be a very tedious process, starting with toweling the water droplets away. “I’m the one who found you at the library, going through decade-old records and taking notes, after the fifth night of you missing dinner.”

“If you’d had to eat my mother’s cooking, dinner would have been a passable meal for you too.”

***

Joan’s first memory of Mrs. Nygma is, oddly enough, at Virginia’s birthday. Not because she was invited—Mother never made a point of inviting neighbors, not when the house barely held the family itself—but because she invited herself through the front door, inquiring about a casserole dish. Mother, needless to say, was abashed, and three hours of ranting followed that night, during which Mother told Joan, at least twenty-five times, to stay away from “that hideous woman and her drunkard husband”, and most especially their son, since nothing good could possibly come from a union such as theirs.

Joan hadn’t listened, and as such acquired additional memories of the Nygmas throughout her childhood and teenage years. She saw Mrs. Nygma often gazing wistfully at the television set, during commercials featuring the latest and most glamorous from the fashion industry, then glance around her home with great disdain for peeling wallpaper and dirty dishes and laundry in need of folding. She saw Mr. Nygma rarely without a beer in his hand, and if he wasn’t holding one at first glance, he was making a bee-line for the kitchen to get one.

What she wasn’t privy to see in the moment, she saw the next day. She saw the bruises peeking out from under Edward’s shirt collar. She saw the stiff movements as he moved down the hallway, favoring one side over the other. She saw a split lip, more than once. She saw tape around his glasses, and black eyes, and sprained limbs, and knew the damage was caused by fists and the violent blow of a work boot, not by clumsiness as Edward would claim in response to a teacher’s inquiry.

“You should tell someone.” She said, more than once; often, she said it while bandaging him in her bedroom, or in their special little hideaway—a rickety old shed half a block from their cul-de-sac—at various hours of day or night. “He can’t get away with this.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He would reply, and she never possessed the courage to say it _did_ matter. It mattered to her.

***

It takes about three weeks for his hand to fully heal. The burns, thankfully enough, were minor and leave barely a scar. She gives him the burn ointment, and makes him promise, just shy of signing his name in blood, to continue applying it for another week, just to be safe.

The following week, she has a pleasantly light day at work and decides to take an extra hour for lunch. The desk sergeant greets her with a nod and tip of the hat, and then makes a comment about how, if Edward isn’t in, he’d be happy to make sure she still has a lunch companion. Not the most unsubtle display she’s seen, but it ranks up there.

She gets three steps through the door when she stops dead. Edward is dressed in full protective gear, complete with safety goggles and a helmet, and has two fully-charged wires hovering half an inch from an explosive, presently nestled atop a block of titanium. She has no idea where he got titanium. She has no idea why he needs titanium, or why he’s trying to blow a hole in the titanium. She thinks it more likely he’ll blow a hole in the precinct floor before he blows anything in the titanium.

The sound of her heels clicking across the concrete floor didn’t get his attention, over the radio Jeopardy broadcast, but the sound of his full name erupting from her lips like a foghorn certainly does. He jumps half a foot in the arm, nearly loses grip on the wires, and almost loses balances twice before securing himself on both elbows, splaying across the table surface, legs a jumbled mess beneath him, face an unfortunate distance from the charge. And then he looks up and gives her a sheepish grin.

“All in the name of science, Joan.” He offers innocently.

***

Detective Jim Gordon pays her a visit three days later. She thinks him a good man: pleasant temperament, well-groomed and equally dressed, and with honest eyes. He knocks at the door just after she ends a wasted hour with Mrs. Brown, the majority of which involved the elder woman lecturing Joan over the phone about lacking responsibility and unprofessional conduct, and a few threats about having her removed from the group home faculty, which is an empty threat and Joan pays even less attention to it than she does the rest of Mrs. Brown’s ranting and raving.

She invites Detective Gordon in, smiles politely when he permits her to place him on a first-name basis, and offers him some tea. He looks mildly intrigued at how well she knows the inner workings of this kitchen, and the loft in general, but says nothing. Perhaps he thinks her a close friend. Perhaps he, like Detective Harvey Bullock, think her a little closer than a friend.

It ultimately doesn’t matter. People have been thinking things about her and Edward for years.

Jim accepts water instead of tea, takes a few drinks, and they make small-talk for the appropriate amount of time. Then he clears his throat and asks about Edward: how he’s doing, and if there’s anything he, Jim, can do for a colleague. He also asks if he might pay Edward a visit, just for a few minutes.

“I think he would like that, very much.” Joan smiles, and holds out her hand. “Here’s the key. And may I have your pen?”

“…My pen?”

She shrugs, innocent as can possibly be. “I’m not taking him off house arrest until Monday. And I’ve seen him pick locks with less.”


	5. (Un)Veiled Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated after the Leland family reunion.

Leland family gatherings are a monthly tradition. Every member knows when and where it will be held, has it marked on respective calendars, and shows up like clockwork. For most, it’s an opportunity to catch each other up on life events, share gossip, and let the children entertain themselves with a barbeque feast that will put them in a food coma for the rest of the day.

Joan holds a particular loathing for these events. Encountering members of her extensive family tree on a regular basis in unavoidable—few of them have left Gotham over the years—but these monthly affairs happen to place her directly in the company of the two people she shouldn’t but wholeheartedly _does_ want to distance herself from: Mother, and Virginia. 

Especially Virginia, but when the two of them are together, Mother ranks equally high on the list.

Sometimes she can almost make it through an entire meal before the barrage of passive-aggression begins, and then she can either fake or receive a legitimate phone call about someone at the office needing her help. Such is her preferred circumstance: she can get her monthly quota of “quality family time” and still leave with her sanity and self-respect intact.

Today, the peace and quiet lasts as long as the first round of fresh corn muffins. And then it begins.

“Oh, Auntie,” Virginia declares, with unnecessary volume, “you will never _guess_ who Joanie has been seeing!”

The announcement perks interest in mothers and grandmothers alike, all of whom make no point about disguising their deepest wishes for dear little Joan to stop dabbling in “such miserable work” (they use descriptive terms for her psychology practice, but that’s the kindest one) and settle down with a “good man”. For Joan, she knows precisely what’s coming next, and it makes the bit of corn muffin solidify halfway down her throat and lodge in place.

“Eddie!” Virginia finishes, with a great flourish, and proceeds to explain, eager to offer details before anyone asks for them. “You remember, don’t you, Auntie? Little Eddie Nygma, the boy next door? Always running around with a magnifying glass and studying strange things? His daddy drank like a fish? Oh, _of course_ you remember, Auntie! The one who made Joanie ruin her pretty little dress, from crawling all over the floor on her birthday?”

The final description is the one to register with her mother’s memory, and all concept of cordiality is thrown out the window. Mother rounds on her, paying no mind to who else might be in the restaurant—and let it be known, there are quite a few staring at them right now—and Joan is now ten years old again, berated like a child for her “tasteless” selection in male company. She’s heard it before, and swallows it down with the same effort it takes to dislodge the muffin from her throat.

And then Mother calls Edward—to quote—an “unmotivated, impertinent, lazy brat good for nothing but trouble”. She’s called him some similar variation before, but this time Joan can’t—and won’t—let it slide by unaddressed. She’s not sure what it is. Perhaps it stems from that first moment when she stepped into his world at the precinct, saw him at work, so enthralled _with_ his work, and doing something he loved—just like he always wanted even though it was never more than a child’s sweet dream. Or maybe it’s the start of her rebellious streak. The one she hasn’t had for over fifteen years.

A little late to the party, so to speak, but there isn’t time to think about it. She’s already on her feet, hands clenched at her sides, and people are staring. There are few things she’d love more than to make a scene, just because she can, but she will walk out of here with her dignity intact.

More or less.

“If you are going to lecture someone about their fraternization, Mother,” Joan says, with ice on her tongue, “perhaps you’d like to adjust your rose-colored glasses and look at your niece. The one who showed up at Edward’s place of employment dressed like a whore, all but tried to _bed_ him in front of his colleagues, and then stormed into _my_ office and accused _me_ of stealing _her man_ when _she_ is the one who takes great pleasure in parading herself about town, ensuring no man would ever choose plain, boring, miserable Joan over a woman with legs open from sunrise to sunset.”

Silence falls like lead. Of all her faults, Joan has always been meticulous about holding her tongue in familial company and practicing only the most refined language. Her…less-civilized words were never spoken except to Edward. Edward, who was always ready when she returned from family affairs with a tall glass of sweet tea and an open ear, no matter how uncouth her language proved to be. Edward, always willing to put aside school work and more important business when she needed an open ear. Edward, unfailing to make her feel like there could never be, anything more important than her life, her thoughts, and her. Just her. _All_ her.

She turns on her heel and runs for the door. She keeps running, like a madwoman, like some crazy fool, and she can’t help thinking—were this a movie—there should be some sort of dramatic music playing in the background right now.

The thought makes her laugh. She’s laughing while running. Has she lost her mind? Maybe that vacation is more overdue than she realized.

***

He’s half-bent over a couple test tubes, silently working to correct the (unbelievably) inaccurate conclusion Dr. Guerra reached regarding the identity of a mysterious powder found on the victim’s left shirtsleeve. Absently, his mind drifts away, just for a split second, and he remembers it’s the first Saturday of the month. Time for the monthly Leland barbeque lunch.

In college, Joan would order the biggest platter available, eat one or two bites, then pack up the rest—along with a hefty box of corn muffins—and bring it back to their apartment. It took her two hours by bus to get home. By that time, it was usually past dinnertime, but there was the kitchen table, and an oven. She heated up the leftovers, he made the sweet tea, and they ate. Sometimes they said nothing. Sometimes they talked about nothing.

Most of the time, he let her talk about the family. She talked, cursed, and said plenty of things she’d deny outside of those four walls. She let out all her frustration, and hurt, and anger, and everything else. And then she would cry.

He held her while she cried. And she cried a lot.

Except…

***

It didn’t happen at the junior prom. It wasn’t even at the senior prom. There was no special occasion for this, not by any stretch of the imagination. She’s not even sure a film director could conjure up the sheer randomness of it all. But maybe someone could. Depends on how good their imagination is.

She’d like to say it all happened after a family event, when she was emotional and furious and not in control of her actions, but that’s not the case. It was two weeks after the fact, so she can’t even claim to have been lingering in the cooling-off period.

It happened when she walked in the door, fresh off the graveyard shift at Joe’s. It was at the point where she needed a haircut, because the chopped pixie style starts to look particularly shaggy after six weeks without a trim, and the kitchen left her a sweaty mess with stains all over her jeans and T-shirt. She felt dirty. She felt tired. And she didn’t actually notice Edward sitting in the adjacent room, hip-deep in a biology textbook, until her shirt was on the floor and her jeans halfway down her legs.

His reaction, to this day, is one she’ll never forget. With a brilliant flush across his cheeks, he quietly closed the book, stood up from the couch, and walked across the room to her bedroom. She heard a little shuffling here and there, then Edward returned with her bathrobe in hand, eyes determinedly focused in the opposite direction.

Her head was spinning, unsettled by her own stupidity and the unorthodox chivalry, and it took her almost five minutes of awkward silence before she remembered to take the robe and bury herself in terrycloth folds.

“Thank you.” She said, feeling her cheeks heat up.

He mumbled some kind of reply, went back to the couch, and buried himself in biology and scientific theories. She took three steps towards her bedroom, stopped, turned slightly in place…and what happened next, at least the exact details, is a bit of a blur. She has a vague memory of crawling on the couch and grabbing the book out of his hands. The memories become much clearer after her lips were pressed to his and his hands—whether out of reflex or something else, she’s not sure—were buried in her hair.

***

None of their kisses have ever been sweet and tender. It’s never been like in the movies, with music playing sweetly in the background and hands lightly entwined with one another. It’s not quite a fight, not quite an embrace; it’s something in the middle, or maybe not even. Maybe it’s just something of its own definition. Whatever it is, whatever this is…it is far too easy to lose himself in the storm.

She all-but attacks him three steps in the door; the test tubes manage to find a way back on solid foundations before he drops them and saturates the floor with something-yet-to-be-identified. She’s not leaving room for arguments or second-guessing. He’s quite familiar with these circumstances, though this is the first time he’s been attacked at work. He’s rather surprised at her; he would certainly never accost her in such a manner (though he’s had a few fantasies) in her office.

He thinks about the test tubes, and the probability of someone walking in on them. And then he stops thinking, because of all her emotions and all the ways he’s ever seen her, there is no time she ever looks more gorgeous, more beautiful, more breathtaking than when she is incensed with unadulterated fury.

Her fingers claw down his chest; she keeps her nails short, probably for the job, but he still feels them through his shirt, and that—to be frank—breaks the rules. A kiss is supposed to stay exactly that: a kiss. Mouth on mouth, lips to lips, nothing more.

She breaks the rules. He breaks them further.

Joan gasps, none too quietly, when he puts her against the nearest wall and relocates his mouth to her neck. Her voice is reduced to breathless whispers, one hand pushing lightly against his shoulder—certainly not enough to convince him of genuine protests—while she mutters something about how they shouldn’t be doing this.

No, they probably shouldn’t be. Especially not at work. But she started this, and he’ll finish it.

***

It takes ten minutes for her to reassemble herself; there are marks up and down both sides of the neck, and she’s trying to remember where she put those scarves from Aunt Jenna. Edward is back at his test tubes, peering down thoughtfully with a pen sticking out of his mouth. It’s incredibly irritating, how put-together he can look even when she knows there are tiny scratch marks hiding under his sweater vest.

“Magnesium phosphorus.”

She pauses in the middle of adjusting her collar and quirks her eyebrow at him. “Excuse me?”

“The powder residue found on the victim’s shirt.” He answers; _Oh, of course…_ he’s back to work. Now she’s passed irritated and making a rapid return to pissed-beyond-belief. “Magnesium phosphorus. I didn’t even know photographers still used it these days.”

“Fancy that.” She grumbles. Why is she in such a bad mood? Does she need to get checked for a hormone imbalance?

“Quite fascinating, actually.” He declares, yet sounds rather unimpressed with his discovery, then straightens up, makes a sharp right turn, and folds his arms over his chest.

He’s always looked unfairly sexy when he does that.

“So,” he says, much too serious, “is this what it means for us to come full circle, Joan?”

“…No.” she whispers. Her voice lacks conviction, and she hates it.

“No.” he repeats. “Well, that’s exactly what it looks like. So, why don’t you educate me as to what it really is?”

She hates when he’s serious like this. And quiet. Too quiet, too serious…too everything. 

“I…” Why must words fail her now? “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not…it’s not like before.”

His eyes have never looked so sharp, so cold, and still so alive. It hurts to keep the contact steady; it’s like looking directly into the sun, and she hasn’t done that since she was nine, on a stupid childish dare. When he starts taking calculated forward steps, the blaze intensifies. She simultaneously wants to run from it and throw herself into it.

“You’re right.” He finally says, much too quietly. “It’s not going to be like before.”

She’s never heard anything that sounded so much like a promise…and a threat.


End file.
